


und bitte schreib mir nie

by ascience



Category: Football RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Angst, German National Team, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-15 06:30:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4596450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ascience/pseuds/ascience
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's hard to get closure when what is dead just won't stay down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	und bitte schreib mir nie

**Author's Note:**

  * For [doubtthestars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doubtthestars/gifts).



> For Mercy, who is a good soul and a bad influence.
> 
> This is mostly gen, I guess? You know better than I. Set at the last match of the last season, the one against Mainz 05.

Bayern wins the league, and that’s not a surprise to anyone who has had even just half an eye on the matches. They won weeks ago already – and they’ve been losing ever since.

Philipp isn’t sure where the match against Mainz fits in anymore, because everything’s been somewhat scrambled, but in the end he lifts cold metal above his head just like the past years, and that’s all that counts.

So yeah, there’s a strange taste of routine this championship, but today the cheers are louder than the frustrations and confetti has yet to fail making anyone smile, really. The party is predictable, but Philipp rather likes it this way than after pain and insecurity so he’s comfortable with his hand around the plate, waving to the crowd.

Less predictable is when Philipp’s eyes flutter past a familiar face next to the tunnel, and he sucks in air.

Less predictable is that Michael showed up.

Philipp didn’t even know that he was in the country, much less here in Munich.

Olli is there, too, but Philipp can’t make himself care much about that. He sees him more often, for TV coverage and the like.

Next to Philipp on the pitch, Thomas leans over and says something, and Philipp automatically nods and replies something or something else, but it’s all just white noise.

Micha is up there smiling, shaking people’s hands, minding his own business apart from him being fucking here in this stadium. Philipp frowns and that’s the moment when Micha looks over and their eyes meet.

There’s no surprise, no happiness, no annoyance in the gaze. If Micha didn’t jerk his chin in the slightest, almost invisible way towards the side exit, Philipp wouldn’t even have seen a hint of acknowledgement.

Micha looks into his direction for another empty second, as if trying to make sure he got the message, then Philipp is pushed down by Juan who’s trying to escape a beer shower.

Philipp gets sprayed in beer in the process as well, and when he looks back up, Micha isn’t in the stadium anymore.

So we’re going to do it this way, Philipp thinks and slips away into the tunnel and through a corridor on the left side. Philipp ends up in a shadowy place almost outside the stadium, and some metres further, he sees the glowing end of a cigarette and a silhouette in the darkness.

“Micha,” Philipp states, not sure how to sway his intonation. He’s not spiteful, he’s not cheerful, he’s trying to go for neutral. He’s fine.

“Congratulations on the championship,” Micha replies, and there’s probably no smile on his face now, but Philipp can’t really see it with just a ghost of light on his face.

Micha says nothing after that. He turns away, takes a drag from the cigarette in his hand and steadily breathes out smoke.

Philipp wishes he could say that Micha looks old, but he doesn’t, at least not more than expected. Less than in Philipp’s clouded memory.

“What are we doing here?“ Philipp asks after some time, stopping from biting the inside of his cheek.

Micha looks up at him as if he’s surprised that Philipp’s inquiring and not just seeing it as given.

“I don’t know what you’re doing here,” Micha says, sizing Philipp up. “I didn’t ask you to be here.”

Philipp knows he didn’t imagine the hint towards this meeting, and he considers pressing Micha for an explanation, but – he doesn’t. Not now. Not anymore.

Philipp looks around. There’s no one else here and, well, why would anyone be? Everyone’s having fun in the stadium.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” he remarks, going to slide his hands into his pockets before realising he’s still in his football shorts and they don’t have any. Like an unsettled bird for displacement behaviour, he wipes his hands on the cloth instead.

“I don’t smoke,” Micha replies and takes another drag from his cigarette.

If Philipp was in a car, he’d hit the brakes hard, trying to avoid hitting the very dead end of their talk. But he’s on foot right now, running to keep up with a forgotten neighbour in a new suit on an old bike.

“Did you enjoy the match?” Philipp asks, pure politeness.

Micha taps his cigarette to let the ashes fall to the ground.

“Ah. Did _you_ enjoy the match?”

“Fair enough,” Philipp says under his breath. Micha has the upper hand in this conversation and it makes Philipp’s skin itch.

He gets it now. Micha wants to rile him up, and it might even have worked. Five years ago, it might have worked.

Philipp straightens his back and wipes any remaining sweat with his hand from his neck and onto the sides of his shirt.

He’s wearing his jersey, his armour, unlike Micha, and most importantly, he has a team to return to. Unlike Micha. Philipp regrets having discarded his captain’s armband after the final whistle.

Micha still stands where Philipp found him, unmoved except for the regular sway of his hand to his mouth to smoke.

“Two ways to leave a team,” Micha says wistfully and immediately guides the cigarette back to his lips.

Philipp perks up.

It’s what they used to say back in 2006, a sort of motivation to go down the right lane that time around. It probably sounded as bitter as it does now, but Philipp was too young, too fresh-faced, too in love with Arne to notice back then.

“Winner or loser,” Philipp replies in a rhythm learnt by heart.

Micha laughs, his voice rough.

“Hero or traitor,” he supplies instead, the corners of his mouth twisting into a sick smile.

“Don’t say that.”

“Don’t say what? That you’ve got all, and I was fucked over?” Micha looks at Philipp challengingly.

“Is that why you wanted to meet me here?” Philipp asks calmly instead of _Will you ever stop playing that old record?_ , and he can see that it takes the wind out of Micha’s sails.

Micha hesitates, before he drops his cigarette on the ground and grinds it under his heel.

“I didn’t,” Micha replies, “I didn’t want you to meet me here.”

He turns around and this time not just his head but his full body, and he faces Philipp directly.

“Are we ever going to sit down and talk about what happened? Outside of media, I mean,“ Micha asks and it almost, just almost sounds honest.

Philipp looks at the ground, at his stained football boots next to Micha’s polished leather shoes. If Philipp would take just a small step forward, their toes would touch.

He doesn’t.

“Probably not,” Philipp says. They never sat down to talk it out during all the years before, so why would they now? It’s just not how it works.

Micha huffs, but he also wags his head understandingly. Then there’s suddenly a glint in his eyes, so out of line with his previous reserve that Philipp cautiously takes a step back.

“One more question,” Micha starts, “those rumours about Bastian – they say Manchester United want him.”

Philipp clicks his tongue. He doesn’t know why Micha is doing this, but if Micha thinks he can get Philipp to trip with a gutter press statement like this, he really _is_ yesterday’s man.

“That’s not a question,” Philipp replies, clipped words.

“Is he going to do it?”

“Do what?” Philipp asks, and sure, he knows he’s just splitting seconds here.

“Leave.” Micha doesn’t add ‘ _you_ ’, but Philipp has done so himself when thinking about it too often.

“Why do you care?”

“Because _you_ should care.”

“I don’t talk into thin air. You know that.” Philipp shrugs and looks away through the exit, into the dimly-lit parking area. He’s starting to hate the feeling of the sweaty shirt sticking to his skin.

“Well, you used to have a lot more words for me.”

Micha aims, but misses with a wide shot.

“Look, Michael, if you want to know, talk to Basti.” Philipp cocks his head. “But I have feeling you don’t want that, do you? What is this really about?”

Micha closes his hand in front of him, as if in prayer, then he sighs.

“If I asked you to meet me in the hotel later,” he starts, putting thought into every word, trying to find the ambiguity, “we wouldn’t... talk, would we?”

“I don’t think I have anything to say."

Micha nods, then he slowly reaches for the left sleeve of Philipp’s jersey and straightens it where it had turned up into itself. He searches for a reaction in Philipp’s eyes, and Philipp allows it.

Micha doesn’t take his hand off as soon as he has done so, but instead lets it slide to the crest on the jersey and drums his fingers on it thrice.

“Good. Me neither,” Micha says slowly and smiles shallowly.

He strides off without goodbye, and Philipp doesn’t follow him.

Philipp decides to let Micha have this one thing.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic that I needed to get out of my system before taking off for new shores, so to speak.
> 
> In other news: I have an 8k pierreus fic written that I'm going to post for the Futbal Minibang, so probably in September. It's finished but you're going to have to wait a bit until then.  
> I'm going to work on writing another clonekeepers (Marc/Bernd) fic now, but if you have other prompts, feel free to send them in.  
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Twitter [here](https://twitter.com/kissthecrest), I'm always looking for cool ppl to follow.


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